


Home Making

by clumsy (orphan_account)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Moving In Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-05 00:51:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3098870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/clumsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey takes a walk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Making

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is set sometime in the not-so-distant future. I was inspired by discussion on tumblr about Ian’s collection of plaid shirts (although in the end this isn't really about plaid shirts at all). Thank you, tumblr friends, and especially zebrawallpaper for your insight.

“Yo, Paul Bunyan, how many fucking plaid shirts do you own?” 

Ian turns from where he’s unpacking DVDs and smiles as Mickey dumps the box of Ian’s clothes on the floor with all the others. “I thought you liked my shirts,” he says.

“I liked 'em better when I wasn't carrying them up four fucking flights of stairs.” Mickey gives the box a shove with his foot. They've been working hard all day, moving into their new place, and the bed is looking very tempting right about now. What the hell, he deserves a break. He flops onto the bare mattress and cracks his neck, feeling his spine pop with satisfaction.

“Hey, I had to carry that box of your guns and crap up four fucking flights of stairs.” Ian shelves the last DVD on the bookcase and joins Mickey on the bed with a flying leap, 180 pounds of muscle jostling and bouncing Mickey around.

“Hey, whoa, watch it,” Mickey grouses, scrambling for a hold. Ian laughs and stretches out next to him, hands behind his head. Ian’s got damp stains under his armpits and he’s dirty from hauling boxes and he smells, but Mickey wants to stick his face in the curve of his neck and inhale him; wants to kiss his smile. 

“You think we should paint?” Ian says, looking around their bedroom. “It’s kind of beige.”

“Beige goes with everything,” Mickey replies, repeating Fiona’s words from this morning. The walls are dull, and they’re banged up and pocked with water damage, but they’re walls. As long as they’re standing, Mickey doesn't really give a fuck what colour they are. 

“Maybe gray in here, and white in the living room,” Ian continues, ignoring Mickey.

Mickey gives him a look and a nudge. “Since when do you care so much about decorating?” 

“It’s our home, Mick. I want it to look good.”

Their home. 

Mickey has known for months that he and Ian are going to live together. For real, on their own, in their own place. Not Ian staying at the Milkovich house like when he was sick, surrounded by whores and bad memories. Not Mickey crashing on Ian’s bedroom floor at the Gallagher house when he had nowhere else to go. Really living together. They’ve already shared dozens of sleepy mornings over cereal and showers and fights and fucks, but it’s different now. 

They got through the hell that was Ian’s manic cycling, the hospitalization, and the drugs trials. And then they got up and kept going. They got jobs, they saved, they combed Craigslist looking for a decent place to live, they saw Svetlana and Yevgeny safely installed in their own new apartment, they left the house in Mandy’s hands, and then they packed up their boxes and left. 

Their new place is only twelve blocks away, but those blocks are worth years of their lives. 

“Mickey?” Ian says, looking over at him when Mickey is silent after a few minutes. “You okay?”

Mickey gets up, pats his pockets to make sure he has his new set of keys, distractedly looks around for his scarf. “Yeah, man, I’m fine. I’m going to get a pack of smokes.”

“In the middle of moving day?” Ian sits up and watches Mickey pull on a jacket. “Fiona and the kids are going to be here with the next load any minute.”

“It’s fine, I'll be back in five minutes.” He leans down to kiss Ian briefly and then he hurries out the door, leaving Ian alone and confused in their bed. 

*

He walks quickly but aimlessly. His feet are moving but his brain’s just along for the ride. He hunches his shoulders and puts his collar up against the cold. 

He doesn't like lying to Ian so he really does stop to buy cigarettes, which he smokes in a chain as he walks. It’s not like Ian will check Mickey’s pockets for a receipt, or smell his breath for proof, but they don’t hide shit from each other anymore, even stupid insignificant shit. It’s what they learned in some of the endless therapy Mickey had to sit through when Ian was at his worst. Ian’s a poster boy for therapy. He’s determined as hell to succeed. His doctor loves him. 

Mickey winds up at the old baseball field. It’s dark and quiet and deserted. He doesn’t really know why his feet brought him here. Maybe he does. He sits in the dugouts, watching the smoke from his cigarette trail lazily into the air and disappear. 

He had no fucking clue how much work went into moving until recently. Ian made a list of everything they had to do and it seemed to never end. Fuck, just getting their kitchen set up was a fucking hassle and a half. It’s not like either of them are TV chefs but Mickey never thought about how many little things you need for a kitchen before. Cutting board. Coffee filters. Can opener. They'd scrounged what they could from their respective houses but there were some things Ian insisted on buying new, like a big fancy frying pan. “For banana pancakes,” Ian had smiled. 

And their bed. Jesus Christ, the people who make mattresses are probably sunning themselves in Mexico with the profits they make off of suckers like Ian and Mickey. But they'd needed a bed and neither of them wanted someone’s hand-me-down off the curb, stained and crawling with fuck knows what. So they'd plunked down the cash for a brand new bed. Mickey had never spent that much money on a single object before, but the sales guy had promised them it would last years, and it was the biggest and softest bed Mickey had ever seen in real life. Ian bought sheets to fit, happily washed and folded them in preparation for the move. 

Tonight they'll fuck in that bed for the first time. Mickey already knows how it will go. They'll be wiped from unpacking and organizing all day. Ian will take a shower and slide under the new sheets, naked and damp and smelling like soap and clean man, and Mickey can't wait to get him dirty again. They'll rush at first in their excitement, the thrill of the new bed making them eager despite their exhaustion. They'll roll around the huge expanse of the mattress, fighting for control, Mickey pretending he wants to win, until Ian pins him down and shoves his cock up his ass. But just as they’re really getting into it Ian will slow down, roll Mickey under him so they're face to face, so they can kiss and groan into each other’s mouths. Ian will be too overwhelmed to speak so his eyes will tell Mickey I love you, I love you, I love you. They'll sleep wrapped up in each other and wake up to a brand new day. A new life.

Mickey knows it won't always be like that. It’s Ian, for Christ’s sake. There will be arguments and yelling and slamming things, because when you promise each other honesty, you have to accept the bad along with the good. They'll sleep on separate sides of the bed some nights. Ian might come to a crashing halt some days and not get out of bed at all. Sometimes they'll be so busy they'll be like ships passing in the night; hurried kisses exchanged distractedly, canceled dinners, battling via text message about who’s going to watch the baby.

But all that sleeping and fighting and fucking will be done in their own home.

Five years ago he didn’t think beyond the next hour, the next day. Five years ago he didn't know where his next meal was coming from. Now he knows that if he goes home to Ian they'll have the next day, and the next day, and the day after that.

It’s scary, it’s fucking terrifying, because it’s real. It’s not some vague, abstract idea Ian gets into his dumb, hopeful head. _I want to be an officer. We got nothing to be ashamed of. You're not free._ This is their life. It’s happening. 

Or not. 

Mickey could leave. He’s got his wallet, his phone, the clothes on his back. He could get on a bus going anywhere; he could drink his life away. He could go back to the days before he needed a new bed or coffee filters. He could forget about his son, about buying milk, about fucking dental insurance. It would be so easy. It’s incredible, how easy it would be. 

Mickey finishes his cigarette. Then he gets up and keeps walking. 

*

Mickey pushes open the door to find Ian and Fiona laughing in the kitchen, their voices rising over the sounds of Carl chasing Debbie with a lampshade on his head, brandishing a pair of nunchuks. She shrieks and slaps at him. Someone’s hooked up the TV and Liam is on the floor playing the Xbox, the volume cranked up high. Ian snatches the nunchuks away from Carl as he runs past, and that’s when Ian notices Mickey in the doorway.

“Hey!” Ian calls out with a smile. There’s a chorus of greetings from the various Gallaghers. Ian comes over to him. “Did you get lost?”

“Nah, man.” Mickey holds up bags of food. “I was just getting dinner.”

“Great, I'm starving.” Ian kisses his cheek, takes the bags and heads for the kitchen. “Can you find plates?” he calls over his shoulder.

“Yeah, sure.” But Mickey stops and just watches Ian for a minute. Ian, who is standing in their kitchen, strong and healthy and smiling and real. Suddenly it’s not scary at all.

“Mick?” Ian prompts him. “It’s going to get cold.”

Mickey snaps out of it. “Coming,” he says. He finds plates wrapped in newspaper in one of the boxes. He helps Ian dish out the burgers and pours juice for Liam. They all squeeze around the table, bumping elbows and passing the salt and arguing over who has the most fries.

“Hey, Ian,” Mickey says after a few minutes, when the other Gallaghers are distracted. 

Ian looks at him with bright eyes, eyes that say I love you. “Yeah?”

Mickey wonders what his eyes say to Ian. He hopes they say I love you too. Thanks for waiting for me. Sorry I took so long.

Mickey shrugs and smiles. “Nothing,” he says. “You know, you look good in plaid.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Come find me at clumsy.tumblr.com.


End file.
